


Scenes

by aguantare



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Drabble, Gen, Incomplete, Islamophobia, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 04:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17114309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: Drabbles/scenes from a not-so-distant future dystopian Los Angeles AU.





	Scenes

**Author's Note:**

> Snippets of an AU that I'm likely never going to finish. Scenes in no particular order, from a universe that keeps coming in and out of focus for me, but I haven't quite been able to let go of. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

**#1**  
The altar is crumbling, part of it blown away by something—a jumper mine maybe, or something similar. Not an RPG. Ibi tries to remember a time when he didn't know what those things were, couldn't ID weapons by the structural damage they cause. Can't. Knows better than to dwell on why. 

Footsteps crunch on the rubble-strewn floor behind him. He glances over his shoulder and sees Hector walking up the aisle. It takes Ibi a couple seconds of watching him before he realizes what's different—it's the first time he's ever seen the other man without an _arma_. 

At the end of the pew that Ibi's sitting in, Hector stops, looks up at the altar and the crucifix, somehow untouched, suspended above it. He goes down on one knee, bows his head, crosses himself, presses his crossed thumb and forefinger to his lips, and Ibi's not Catholic, he's not even Christian, but something about it, about the natural grace of it, about the throwback to a time and place before this war, this conflict, this rebellion, this—whatever it is--found either of them, it makes Ibi's throat tighten, just a little. 

Hector slides into the pew next to him, sets his hands in his lap, and he seems almost at ease, the lines of his shoulders and his back less rigid, the set of his jaw less sharp. Ibi doesn't say anything, not sure if his companion is praying, or thinking, or trying to find words of his own. 

“I used to pray for forgiveness,” Hector says after a long silence. 

Ibi wants to ask what for, but doesn't, because deep down, he already knows. Fighting for your life requires you to do things you never thought possible, things you never speak of to anyone other than god. 

“What do you pray for now?” he asks.

Hector looks sideways at him, although he doesn't quite meet Ibi's eyes. 

“Understanding.”

They sit in silence for another five minutes or so. Then Hector rises to his feet and exits as wordlessly as he arrived. 

**#2**  
Carlos watches Son eye the _armas_ on the table, then reach out and pick up the Beretta.

“You know how to use that thing?” Carlos asks.

Son's expression hardens. 

“Every Korean born in the valley after 1992 knows how to use one of these,” he says, ejecting the magazine, checking, and reloading it in three swift movements. Hyperbole, maybe, but maybe not, Carlos thinks. Cultural memory is strong here. He regrets his skepticism.

Son racks the slide with practiced ease, sights the pistol on the ground for a second or two, then tucks it into his waistband, all with an air of a man who knows how to handle himself. 

“Yeah?” he says, raising an eyebrow in Carlos' direction that's part defiant, part defensive. Carlos doesn't apologize, but does raise his chin in Son's direction, a wordless acknowledgment, and raps his knuckles on the table. 

“Anything else you know how to use, load up. Hit the road in five.”

 **#3**  
Philippe is asleep, one arm resting palm up on the bed next to him. Neymar reaches out, touches his fingertips to the slightly ragged scar just below his wrist. 

“They put the trackers there on purpose.” Neymar glances up, lets his hand fall back to his side. Leo gives him an almost-smile that's far too understanding for Neymar to contemplate right now. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, clasping his hands behind his back to try and keep from giving himself away more than he already has. 

“In the wrist,” Leo clarifies, tapping the unmarred inside of his own wrist, “They've started sticking the trackers in there, super close to the veins, so people are less likely to try and do what he did and cut them out.”

Neymar takes that in, wonders how Leo found that information out, knows better than to ask. 

“Can you—do you know what he used?” He's not actually sure he wants to know, but it's too late to take the question back now. 

Leo tucks his lower lip between his teeth.

“Razor blade, maybe,” he replies after a second or two, “Hard to tell. It wasn't super sharp, whatever it was. In a perfect world, he'd probably get 90, 95% of his function back but...” He trails off and shrugs, and yeah, Neymar thinks, this definitely isn't a perfect world. 

“Hey.” Leo waits until Neymar looks up at him to continue. “I'll let you know when he wakes up. Probably need you to interpret, at least until the morphine wears off.”

Neymar appreciates the guise of practicality. Appreciates, too, the squeeze that Leo gives his shoulder as he steps by him on his way out.

 **#4**  
Leo finds Luis sitting on the fire escape, half-smoked cigarette in his fingers. 

“You only smoke when we lose someone, or when you're so pissed you're going to kill someone yourself,” he observes, stepping out onto the landing.

Luis looks at him wordlessly.

“You'd better be angry at whoever assaulted him,” Leo says after a short pause, “Because if you're pissed at him for what happened, for what someone else did to hi--”

“Fuck you if that's how low your opinion is of me,” Luis cuts in. His voice is low and hard, but not out of malice.

Okay, Leo thinks, maybe I deserved that. 

He stands there for a few more seconds, then walks over and takes a seat a couple steps below the one Luis is sitting on. A few more moments pass, and then a cigarette and lighter appear in the side of his vision. He takes the proffered items, lights up the cigarette for himself and hands the lighter back over his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he says, taking a long drag on the cigarette. 

“It's fine,” Luis mutters, “I wouldn't have had high expectations of me either.”

Leo doesn't respond. They've seen a lot in three years of working together, but somehow there are always darker places to go.

“When I was in Syria,” Luis speaks up after a long silence, “There was this guy in my unit. He talked a lot. Bragged a lot. About shit you shouldn't brag about, you know? Shit he should have caught charges for. But. It was Syria, so. You know.”

Leo really only knows what he saw in the news, but if that's anything to go by, he figures he can safely presume he doesn't know the half of it. And Luis isn't one for exaggeration. 

“We get ambushed on a patrol, he takes a piece of shrapnel right in the neck.” Behind him, Leo can hear the metal stairs creak a little as Luis shifts. 

“It was probably only one or two seconds, but. I remember thinking about, you know, just sitting there and...not helping him. Because of the things he said he'd done.”

Leo taps some ash from the end of his cigarette, watches the embers fade.

“We saved his life,” Luis concludes. Another creak. “Eight years later and I'm still not sure I made the right decision.”

“Because you upheld your oath?” Leo can't help asking. Luis doesn't answer right away. 

“Did I really do no harm,” he asks eventually, “If the person I saved turns around and hurts someone like that kid lying in our infirmary right now?”

Leo doesn't have an answer. 

**#5**  
“C'mere,” Andres says, beckoning at Hector. Hector doesn't move from his seat, but Carlos can see there's just a hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth. 

“C'mere _cabron_ ,” Andres demands, snapping his fingers, “You're gonna dance with me.” Carlos assumes there's absolutely no way Hector's going to go with that, and for a second or two more, it looks like he's right, because Hector still doesn't move. But then he's getting to his feet and setting his half-finished beer on the table. The music coming through the speakers via his phone is clear, with barely a hint of static, and Carlos finds it vaguely amusing that Homeland Security can cut the electricity, but Sirius XM radio still works without issue.

“What is this?” Hector asks, pushing his sleeves up his arms.

“Salsa, _pendejo_ ,” Andres exclaims, looking scandalized, “You Mexican or not?” Hector rolls his eyes, but he's smiling more easily now, and Carlos senses that he's getting a glimpse of what Hector was like before the war. Andres turns the volume up just a little bit more and walks to the center of the room, extends a hand. Hector hesitates a second longer, then gives in and joins him. 

Carlos isn't really sure what he's expecting. Awkwardness, maybe. Or goofing around more than dancing. But he quickly realizes that both Andres and Hector know what they're doing, and they've almost certainly done this before. Andres is leading, and he tries to execute a turn, ends up stepping on Hector's foot instead. 

“ _Otra vez_?” Carlos hears Hector grumble. 

“ _Calmate_ ,” Andres retorts, trying to find the rhythm again. 

“Salcedo,” Hector says, “ _Hombre_ , get over here and help me out. This guy, _no le sale el ritmo_.”

“ _De que hablas_ , look who's talking,” Andres snorts, shoving Hector's shoulder even as he steps back to allow Carlos to take his place, “ _Pinche banda_ , that's the only thing you know how to dance.”

“ _Ven_ ,” Hector says, ignoring Andres' last jibe and gesturing for Carlos to give him his hand, like it's something he does all the time, “ _Bailamos_.”

It's been years since Carlos danced anything, let alone salsa, but it comes back to him, reminds of him of people and places he hasn't been able to think about in a long time. It's comfortingly, achingly familiar, and he relaxes into the music, allows himself to enjoy it, just for a little while.

“ _Salsero _,” Hector declares as the song comes to an end. The accompanying cuff to the back of Carlos' head is uncharacteristically affectionate.__

__Later, much later, when everyone else has gone to sleep and Carlos takes first watch, he allows himself to think, in the safety of darkness and solitude, about the warm weight of Hector's hand on his waist and the press of his palm against his lower back._ _

__**#6**  
James knocks on the bathroom door, but doesn't really wait for an answer before cracking it open. _ _

__“Hey, here's the--” He stops short. Ibi goes very still for a long second. Then he turns his head until James can just see his profile, above the suddenly tense curve of his bare shoulders and back._ _

__“Find a towel?” Ibi asks, carefully neutral._ _

__“I—yeah. I. Ibi--” James hates himself for his incoherence, but the sight of Ibi's bare back, striated with awful, angry-looking scars is almost too much for him to comprehend. He's seen the scars on Ibi's wrists, the kind of scars that come from extended periods of time in handcuffs, and he knows Ibi is from Pac Heights, where things got bad well before Galarza, but he didn't realize—didn't ever think it was like this._ _

__Ibi turns around then, and his expression is unreadable. James feels a twinge of apprehension—it's clear Ibi has gone out of his way to keep this from them. He holds out the towel._ _

__“Thanks.” Ibi takes the towel, drapes it around his neck, crosses his arms. Leans back against the sink and meets James' uneasy gaze._ _

__“The guards at the jail,” he says after a few seconds, “They heard me speaking Arabic to another guy.”_ _

__He pauses, inhales deeply and lets it out slowly._ _

__“They figured we'd only speak another language if we had something to hide, so...” He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. He doesn't explain more, but he doesn't have to._ _

__“The hilarious thing is, I speak Arabic like a 2nd grader,” Ibi adds, “So in the end, they nearly killed me over half a dozen grammatically incorrect attempts at asking where a guy was from.”_ _

__James tries to imagine what they must have done, what they must have used to inflict that kind of damage. Wonders how long it lasted. Swallows the question, because it feels too intimate, too invasive._ _

__“Does it...does it still hurt?” he asks instead, gesturing vaguely with one hand. Ibi looks at him for a long moment._ _

__“My back hasn't hurt in almost six months,” he replies eventually._ _

__“But?” James asks, sensing a second half to his response._ _

__Ibi pushes off the sink, grabs his shirt from the towel rack and heads toward the door, pauses just on the edge of James' personal space. James meets his eyes, and this close, it feels like Ibi is looking right through him._ _

__“Other things,” Ibi says, gently, “They hurt all the time.”_ _

__He leaves. It takes James nearly thirty seconds to follow suit._ _

__**#7**  
Neymar unfolds the blanket, moves to drape it carefully over James. The fabric has just barely settled when James bolts upright, one hand flying to the gun on the table beside him and raising it to point right into the center of Neymar's chest before Neymar even realizes what's happening. James is breathing heavily, like he's just run a windsprint, and Neymar isn't entirely sure that he's awake. _ _

__“It's alright, _hombre_ ,” he says, slowly raising a hand, “It's just me.” _ _

__James stares at him for a second or two longer, eyes wide, hyper-alert. Then his grip on the gun slackens. He drops his arm, like it's suddenly too heavy for him to hold up. After a few seconds, he engages the safety and leans over to set the weapon on the table again. Bends his knees up and sets his elbows on them, pausing momentarily when he notices, belatedly, the blanket Neymar had been trying to lay over him._ _

__“Thanks,” he says, glancing up at Neymar. He's still short of breath, but it's starting to even out._ _

__“Sorry I almost shot you for it,” he adds with a humorless smile._ _

__“...it's alright,” Neymar replies. He hesitates, then just goes for it because hey, they could all be dead tomorrow and it wouldn't matter anymore. “Do you uh...do you want me to hang out until you go back to sleep?”_ _

__James seems to go still at that, doesn't lift his head to look at Neymar or do anything else that could be construed as a response. Neymar reads it as a no, understands without having to be told. He tucks his hands in his pockets and starts to head for the back door._ _

__“If—if you don't have anything else to do,” James speaks up, haltingly, like the words are hard to come by. He's still not looking up, and Neymar senses that James has never asked this from anyone before._ _

__“Nope,” Neymar says, deliberately casual as he changes course and heads for one of the chairs._ _

__It takes James half an hour or so to fall back asleep. Twice, he jolts awake just as he's about to doze off, eyes darting wildly around the room before settling on Neymar, slouched in a chair five feet away. Both times, Neymar thinks he sees something like surprise in James' expression, like maybe he's not expecting Neymar to still be there, and then something like relief, like he's glad that he is._ _

__Finally he drifts off, everything about him finally going soft and relaxed, the blanket Neymar gave him tucked up snugly under his arms._ _

__Neymar stays there, awake, vigilant, until the window behind the front curtains goes golden with the coming sunrise._ _

**Author's Note:**

>  _arma_ : firearm, gun  
>  _cabron_ and _pendejo_ : insults that can be used affectionately between good friends  
>  _Otra vez_?: Again?  
>  _Calmate_ : Calm down  
>  _Hombre_ : Man  
>  _no le sale el ritmo_ : He doesn't have any rhythm  
>  _De que hablas_ : What are you talking about  
>  _Pinche banda_ : Fucking banda (type of Mexican music originating in Sinaloa)  
>  _Ven_ : Come (here)  
>  _Bailamos_ : We dance; let's dance  
>  _Salsero_ : salsa dancer


End file.
